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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29561634">communication is key</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietmoon/pseuds/quietmoon'>quietmoon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Implied Sexual Content, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, easily misconstrued attempts at flirting by a geriatric gun, peace talks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:42:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,352</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29561634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietmoon/pseuds/quietmoon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Optimus has known he’s irrevocably in love with a warmongering lord of destruction going on a few millennia now, but why on Cybertron his processor has chosen <i>now</i> to start glitching out about it, he cannot fathom.</p>
</blockquote>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Megatron/Optimus Prime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>133</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>communication is key</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The tension in the air is pervasive, thick enough to cut with an electro-knife. It’s doesn’t prickle in a dangerous way, the way that might have sent Optimus’ systems into an over-alert state of anxiety only decacycles ago, but it is… <em>awkward.</em></p><p>He can feel Megatron’s gaze on him like the scraping of claws on his thinnest armour. But when he glances across, the warlord is always looking somewhere else. Talking with Prowl and Soundwave about law enforcement for their shared base, or snapping at Starscream when his second in command proposes yet another vastly over-budget scientific endeavour.</p><p>Optimus isn’t sure what he expected from Megatron. Not this, though, he knows. Not this.</p><p>Getting the Decepticons to sit down at peace talks was the hard part. But after more than a month of long daily meetings that more closely resemble office work than a war’s battleground, it’s becoming clear that the two factions are not only capable of cooperation, but — dare Optimus say it — thrive on it. The Autobots are all at ease in a way Optimus hasn’t seen for a long, long time, free of the monotony of a war that has lasted longer and changed more than any one processor is capable of comprehending.</p><p>Optimus’ mouth turns down beneath his mask. If only other wounds from the war were as eager to heal, here on the other side of it. Faction grudges are easy, apparently. It’s the personal that like to linger.</p><p>“What do <em>you </em>think, Prime?” Megatron’s voice cuts through the negative miasma of Optimus’ neural net.</p><p>He cycles his optics. Clears his throat as surreptitiously as he can. “I’m sorry, Megatron, what was that?”</p><p>Megatron looks smug. “Why, this new shift rota Ultra Magnus is proposing, Prime. I want to hear your opinion on it.” He tilts his helm back a little, the challenge written clearly on his sharp features. The thought sparks through Optimus’ processor lightning fast — that the way the angle accentuates the harsh cut of his jaw, the straight line of his nose, that prominent brow furrowed over smirking crimson optics... Megatron really can be devastatingly handsome.</p><p>Optimus clears his voice box again. “The cross-faction rota, yes? I support it. The past few decacycles without incident have proven that Autobots and Decepticons can mingle and work together safely and productively.” Megatron opens his mouth to argue, and predicting his retort, Optimus hurriedly adds, “—Excepting the boiling beaker incident, which Starscream and Skyfire have both gone to great lengths to explain was an accident.” He ignores Starscream’s obvious avoidance of his gaze. As long as the seeker doesn’t throw any more super-heated energon at Optimus’ bots, he’s happy enough. “I think cross-faction socialising feels like a natural progression from here. It does not make sense to me to avoid it in formal settings anymore.”</p><p>Megatron’s red gaze is cool, if a colour that rich with heat <em>can</em> be, as he considers Optimus’ words. “I suppose it may be appropriate now,” he mutters, half to himself. Even hushed as it is, Megatron’s voice captures the room. He is the sort of mech that doesn’t ever need to demand attention, rather being a natural-forged magnet <em>for </em>it. Outside an adversarial environment in which it was a weapon that was utilised against him, Optimus concedes he feels less guilty in admiring it. It didn’t stop him before, but—</p><p>He forces himself to focus as Megatron continues, “Given the situation… Perhaps the time for <em>intermingling</em>, as you put it, has finally arrived.”</p><p>Optimus doesn’t miss the twitch of Starscream’s wings.</p><p>“Very well,” Megatron concludes, viscous authority seeping into his tone like well-brewed oil. “Soundwave, forward to Decepticons forces: timestamped for tomorrow’s light cycle, the law ‘cross-faction fraternisation is forbidden under pain of death’ is henceforth null and void. Details incoming.”</p><p>Autobot reactions are varied around the table. Optimus, much to his chagrin, expected as much of Megatron, so he isn’t as surprised as he is simply weary. Jazz lets out a colourful curse before handing an amused Ratchet a credit chit under the table as he mutters, “That explains so much.” Starscream’s wings flutter again, body language confused; if Optimus didn’t know any better, he’d think Starscream was broadcasting eagerness and trepidation in equal measure. In fact, he’s not sure he <em>does</em> know better. Shockwave’s optic narrows, although Optimus is still learning to parse his expressions, so its meaning could range from joy to disgust; Ironhide fails to stifle a snort; and Prowl sighs, optics rife with disapproval.</p><p>“On behalf of Ultra Magnus,” Optimus says, “I must remind the table that <em>all</em> death penalties are disallowed under terms of the initial peace treaty.”</p><p>Megatron only smirks. “Semantics, Prime. My decepticons know better than to cross a direct order from <em>me</em>.”</p><p>“Some of us don’t <em>need</em> a ‘no fraternisation’ policy to ensure loyalty,” Jazz quips on Optimus’ behalf.</p><p>“It’s not a risk when nobody’s interested, grounder,” Starscream is quick to sneer back.</p><p>Optimus raises his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Please, Starscream, Jazz,” he says for what feels like the thousandth time, levying each with a meaningful look. “More on the topic at hand, I shall forward Ultra Magnus the go-ahead on behalf of Autobot Command. This is an exciting leap forward for Cybertronian peace.”</p><p>That prickle is back, that tickling touch like claws, like a hot vent, skating right through the plates of his armour to the sensitive cabling underneath. A whisper of awareness along his sensory net to let him know he’s being <em>watched. </em>His optics flick to Megatron’s for all of an astrosecond — the mech is focusing on a datapad in his servo, none the wiser — and Optimus is left wondering for the thousandth time if he’s really imagining it all.</p><p>Ironhide makes some joke at Megatron’s expense, and ends up caught in a bickering match with Shockwave. Optimus’ expression falls into a concealed pout once again, but he is careful not to let his gaze stray to the steel-grey mech across the table.</p><p>The thing is... Optimus <em>knows </em>Megatron. He knows him better than perhaps any other mecha he has ever met, in a way you only can once you have ripped something apart so many times you have seen every way it can be put back together. If one sets oneself on destroying something, one eventually learns its soft spots, its vulnerabilities, the weaknesses and gaps in the armour.</p><p>As, doubtless, Megatron understands <em>him</em>. So if Optimus can tell Megatron is watching him when Megatron doesn’t even seem to, then what can Megatron glean of Optimus’ own state? What is he <em>seeing</em>, exactly, that has him watching his nemesis so closely and yet with such secrecy?</p><p>It is a line of logic Optimus’ processor has executed countless times since the ceasefire, and far before. The conclusion was never absolute as it is now. His spark sits constricted and buzzing in its chamber, anxiety and confusion and an unwelcome biting hope warring for dominance.</p><p>The lingering gazes and frustrated excuses, the flush of energon under a scarred faceplate when servos or pauldrons brush — has Megatron seen? Does Megatron know his agony, his constant state of freefall? But how can he, why does he, when Optimus himself has no idea himself what brought this emotional turmoil on?</p><p>Well, in context. Optimus has known he’s irrevocably in love with a warmongering lord of destruction going on a few millennia now, but why on Cybertron his processor has chosen <em>now</em> to start glitching out about it, he cannot fathom. If he can fight to the near-death with the object of his affections without triggering an existential shutdown (anymore), why can’t he think about something as innocuous as the size of Megatron’s servo joints and how solid that calloused metal might feel despite a gentle, caring, sensitive touch—</p><p>Self awareness finally rears into central processing and Optimus tears his gaze from Megatron’s servo’s tapping away on his datapad. His intake is too dry. <em>This is unbearable.</em></p><p>His only saving grace is that nobody else seems to have noticed his pining stare. At least, he hopes not. Soundwave is impossible to read and Jazz has a knack for getting into Optimus’ processor before he can figure it out himself, but—</p><p>Before he can overthink it any further, Optimus speaks up, interrupting Shockwave’s haughtily-worded derision for Ironhide’s something-or-other. “Is there anything more anyone wishes to discuss from today’s agenda?”</p><p>His optics catch Megatron’s as the warlord throws him a victorious look. Optimus doesn’t know what fight he’s lost, but the acknowledgement of it tingles through his cables in a way that is not entirely unpleasant. Under the table, his servo spasms into a clenched fist.</p><p>A quick glance around the room confirms the conclusion of today’s meeting, and Optimus pushes his chair back to mark it. “Very well. I wish you all a pleasant evening. Thank you and see you tomorrow.”</p><p>Starscream makes a face as he passes, already halfway to the door. “Can’t <em>wait</em>.”</p><p>“Off in a hurry, Screamer?” Jazz teases as he follows. “Eager to <em>fraternise </em>without a slap on the wrist?”</p><p>Their argument fades into the corridor, drowned beneath the bustle of the meeting packing up. Optimus takes his time slipping his datapads and empty energon cubes into subspace, careful to keep his gaze focused on his own desk space. Across on the far side of the table, Megatron murmurs something quietly to Soundwave, who only nods in his usual stoic way before making his way towards the door. He’s one of the last to trickle out. The realisation sits electric in Optimus’ logic circuits.</p><p>The automatic door slides shut behind Soundwave. Megatron’s presence sits heavily on the room, and that staticy fuzzy <em>tickling</em> feeling is back in Optimus’ cables. But he manages to keep his gaze locked on the empty night cycle cube in his servo for all of three astroseconds before his will crumbles and he glances up.</p><p>Megatron’s is staring at him, expression unreadable. Slowly, a glossa peeks out to wet his lips.</p><p>Optimus hurriedly clears his voice box before it can click into tell-tale static.</p><p>“That’s your tell, Prime.” The warlord looks at ease as he leans his forearms across the back of his chair, leaning forward with an amused expression. “Every time you catch yourself, you clear your throat. You are as transparent as ever, you must be aware of it.”</p><p>Optimus’ optics cycle wide. “I—” Embarrassed static clogs up his vocal nodes and he resets quickly. “You misunderstand, Megatron. I’m just thirsty.”</p><p>Megatron glances down at the empty fuel cube in Optimus’ servo. “Really,” he says slowly, voice smooth as his gaze crawls back up Optimus' frame, at once careful and leisurely. Optimus pulls his armour flaps tight lest they tremble and give him away. In the quiet of the room, the powerful rumble of their engines intermingle into a calming background noise. Have they ever stood in such silence together?</p><p>At once, Opimtus subspaces the cube. “<em>Yes</em>.”</p><p>Megatron’s optics finally find his own. “I see.” His tone is light, voice deep, clearly teasing at Optimus’ ill-disguised discomfort. He consciously stops himself from clearing his voice box <em>yet again</em> — a habit he always had, but his time on Earth has driven into a nervous tic.</p><p>“Was there something you wanted, Megatron?” <em>Or are you simply taking glee in my hopelessly obvious pining? </em>But no, he tries to reason with that part of his processor; After so long in oblivious bliss, how could he realise <em>now? </em>It is all the more likely that he has not noticed. Somehow. Optimus hopes so, if only for the sake of his dignity.</p><p>And certainly not because if Megatron <em>has</em> noticed and <em>this</em> is his response, then it reads like a clearly communicated rejection. His spark squeezes painfully, a burning flare whipping at the chamber. No, this is nothing to do with that.</p><p>But Megatron shakes his head. “No, no, Prime. I’m quite content like this.” That smug smirk is back as his optics flicks down to Optimus’ faceplate. Then, slowly, he murmurs, “Why? Is there something you want of me?”</p><p>Realisation barrels into Optimus’ at top speed, much like Astrotrain did during the Fourth Battle of Central City. <em>Oh, he <strong>does </strong>know. Oh, <strong>no</strong>.</em> His cables tense, spinal strut creaking with how rigid his posture shoots, servos clenching into painful fists at his side. <em>Oh, he has known for Primus knows how long and this, <strong>this </strong>is his answer — this is how he chooses to reject my spark! By way of <strong>teasing</strong>.</em></p><p>Megatron’s optics cycle to a wider aperture. “Prime?”</p><p>But Optimus’ processor is busy flipping between abject horror, humiliation, and a tender broken-hearted keening. Because despite his own awareness of the situation, his constant bargaining with himself and hours upon wakeless hours of talking himself through the unwelcome fondness in his heart, despite <em>knowing</em> that Megatron has no affection for him — respect, of course, that only centuries of steely-sparked rivalry could conjure up, but not the same soft feeling in his energy core when he sees <em>him</em> laughing with <em>his</em> commanding officers, his closest friends, somewhere he wishes <em>he </em>might be one day—</p><p>“Prime!”</p><p>Optimus flinches from the quagmire in his processor. Distantly, he hears his own heating fans whirring in the quiet of the room, working hard to cool his mortified frame. His neural net stings from the sharp knife of disappointment, and yet it cannot decide where to aim the blade; at the mech standing before him for letting down his hopes or himself for letting those hopes fester in the first place?</p><p>Megatron has stepped around the table, the smugness of a moment ago nowhere to be seen. He looks… worried, really. Alarmed. Concerned. <em>Protective,</em> Optimus traitorous processor tries to reason. <em>Oh, this blasted junkpile and mercurial mood swings…!</em> But even in the heat of the moment Optimus recognises the irony in such a statement. After all, he’s the one passing through the seven stages of proto-archival grief because his rival smirked at him.</p><p>Optimus jumps back when Megatron taps lightly at his forearm. “I’m fine,” he says quickly. “I’m fine, it’s nothing.”</p><p>“Prime—”</p><p>“I’m fine!” When he looks down he’s relieved to see his desk is clear. “I have to—” Already, Optimus is marching for the exit, Megatron’s heavy stare burning into his back. “See you tomorrow.”</p><p>The automatic doors have just closed behind him when Optimus stops dead in his tracks. The air outside the meeting room is colder, not having entertained a multitude of bickering heavy-duty frames, and his armour pings once as it cools against it.</p><p>He can imagine tomorrow clear as anything. A stilted meeting filled with avoided gazes and awkward silences, a prickle in his cables and a heavy feeling in his spark, all with the audience of their entire suite of commanding officers... No. No, he cannot allow that to pass.</p><p>Optimus may have made peace with his feelings for Megatron centuries ago, but alongside that came a vow to himself: to never let it affect his Autobots negatively.</p><p>To waste this precious moment they’ve all fought and bled and cried for, to refuse this opportunity to build a peaceful future for all of Cybertron, to <em>ignore </em>this extended pleading servo, all for the sake of his pride? His bruised feelings? An unrequited love that he resigned being hopeless anyway? All of that would definitely fall under the category of letting down his Autobots.</p><p>He is Optimus Prime. He <em>has </em>to live with Megatron. One way or another.</p><p>So there’s only one thing for it.</p><p>Spinning on his heels, Optimus marches right back into the room. The sliding doors open to bring him face to face with a surprised Megatron, whose optics cycle impossibly wide at the sight of Optimus’ glower.</p><p>“Prime? What— <em>Hey!</em>”</p><p>Not wasting a moment, Optimus places his servos on Megatron’s shoulders and handily pushes him back into a chair. He locks the door behind them before turning back with a sharp expression. “We need to talk.”</p><p>If Optimus is going to get rejected, he’s going to do it <em>properly, </em>slag it all<em>.</em> Communication is the key to every healthy relationship; how many times has Optimus preached that? Well, time to put his metal where his mouth is.</p><p>Megatron looks nervous, mouth slightly ajar.</p><p>Optimus takes a deep breath, and begins to speak.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Optimus isn’t sure why it surprises him so much to learn that he and Megatron are <em>terrible</em> at communicating. Or remarkably adept at misreading every sign and sentence should it suit their preconceived notions of one another. That really is something they ought to work on.</p><p>Well, Optimus confesses in the best way that he can — that Megatron has always called to him as Matrix does to Primus, that despite everything, to die by his hand would have been an honour, that his frame has hyper-attuned itself to respond solely to fantasies involving him much to his exasperation. The speech is, naturally, interspersed with frequent damning of Megatron’s inclination for violence, his sudden and quite frankly nonsensical determination to conquer the known galaxy, the tyrannical and oppressive work environment of the Decepticons, and his worryingly blase attitude towards property damage.</p><p>It isn’t the most romantic thing Optimus has ever heard. But it’s passable, he thinks. It is the sort of thing that should offer closure upon being turned away. Hopefully.</p><p>However, it’s not until Optimus finishes his little tirade of love and exasperation, vents coming fast, cheeks heated, optics blazing under a furrowed brow, that Megatron licks his lips and finally deigns to say, “I apologise, Prime, if my advances read as a rejection.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Later, much later, Megatron’s blunt fingers draw patterns and glyphs into the kibble of Optimus’ back. His engine is a soft purr against Optimus’ finial, frame warm and limp in the other’s embrace.</p><p>“Prime,” Megatron starts.</p><p>He knows that tone of voice. Rather than voice his exasperation, he settles for a sleepy answering rumble of his own engine. He cannot recall ever having had his power reserves quite so thoroughly plundered, lying shower-fresh and limp-strutted on Megatron’s oversized berth.</p><p>Megatron’s fingers pause in their dance. Optimus almost wants to glance up at what he’s saying, but <em>cuddling</em> is something he hasn’t done for a very long time, and especially not as the smaller party, so he’ll stay right where he is, thank you very much.</p><p>It’s a moment or two before Megatron continues. “Let me get this straight, Prime. I flirt with you incessantly every day for centuries, agree to peace talks, end a <em>war</em> to talk to you, and you read that as... a rejection?”</p><p>A strange choking noise sounds in Optimus’ throat. “W-Well, it—… It did not feel quite so simple at the time, Megatron.”</p><p>It’s supposed to sound admonishing. But muffled into his lover’s pectoral plating and accompanied with an embarrassed squirm, the effect is largely lost.</p><p>Megatron’s arms squeeze tighter around him. Optimus can hear the smile when he speaks, clear as anything. “You’re a fool, Optimus Prime.”</p><p>The urge to quip back is irresistible. Force of habit. “You’re vague with communication.”</p><p>It draws out a quiet chuckle. “Very well. Next time I proposition you, I too shall trap you in the treaty room and effuse about you, lay bare to the world my long-held feelings of attraction, admiration, adoration—” The rest is drowned beneath a honk, Optimus’ last line of defence, and Megatron cuts off into a boisterous laugh.</p><p>Optimus wiggles again so that his disapproval isn’t entirely buried against Megatron’s burly pectoral armour. “No, thank you! You will do no such thing.”</p><p>Megatron’s grin is an evil thing as he leans down, catching Optimus off guard with a chaste kiss. His crimson optics hold a mischievous glint. “Try me, Prime. Communication is key.”</p><p>Suddenly very aware that tomorrow’s meeting — <em>today’s meeting</em>, his chronometer corrects, <em>by Primus</em>, how long were they <em>at it?</em> — is only a few hours away, Optimus logic circuits prompt that he has only one choice. He leans up, optics boring deep into Megatron’s, and whispers, “Trust me, your staring has communicated enough already,” before returning the kiss ten-fold.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>mg: hey guess what<br/>op: i'm horny and in love with you?<br/>op:<br/>op: who said that</p></blockquote></div></div>
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